


Old letters are useless

by soritt



Category: Cloud Atlas (2012), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: I call it Sky Atlas, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:19:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soritt/pseuds/soritt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I wonder why we keep making the same mistakes"</p><p>[Spoilers warning for Cloud Atlas]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old letters are useless

_"I wonder why we keep making the same mistakes"_

[1936]

 

It was a funny feeling, but Frobisher felt like he had played the piano too much both his fingers and the keys had worn out. It was like his skin had seeped into the instrument as the music jumped out. Cloud Atlas Sextet, the only thing that Frobisher ever felt proud of, was not his. Where did those come from then? He asked himself while writing the notes down on a piece of crumpled paper. That piece just came to him slowly but steadily. It was like undressing a lover, piece after piece. He could not rush it, he could not slow it down. But this piece was most definitely not his.

Never mind what he owned. Ownership was selfish. Even so Frobisher could not help but wonder why it had come to him, him and Vyvyan to be exact, but to him more clearly and soundly than it did to Vyvyan. Frobisher chuckled when he thought about that old bastard of a genius composer. If music came to Vyvyan the same way it was coming to Frobisher, then that geezer did not worth his reputation after all. Oh, Cloud Atlas, even the name he gave it to did not sound like his idea. It was destined for the piece, one would say. Frobisher was not a believer of fate.

And Frobisher failed to understand why that piece of music had taken over his life. The second his humanly instinct kicked in with hunger and thirst and lethargy, Cloud Atlas swept him away with its magical magnificence and his daily needs hurriedly killed themselves. He was aware that none of this would end well. But if his story had to end in tears, at least he had to finish this piece of music and hoped that it was the right thing to do.

Even if his whole world had collapsed in front of him, he would not have been able to lift his hands off the piano. He was still young, and handsome as many people had told him. Too young and too handsome to drown in madness and illusion of greatness. Cloud Atlas had that kind of power over the poor lad that was chosen to write it down. Cloud Atlas happened suddenly and it was packed full of life. The life that was robbed from someone, no doubt, Frobisher, maybe.

But there should be an end to everything. So that moment came, when Frobisher threw his pen across the table and gasped and then took a minute to calm down enough to whisper: ‘It’s done.’ The music stopped and his world became eerily quiet, to the point of scary. It was swift and short, the end. Frobisher did not have time to evaluate anything. Cloud Atlas had fully reveled itself and Frobisher took great pride on it. Something that was not his and never would be. Frobisher could not figure out why his life had turned this way, and not the way where Sixsmith was. Because if there were anything that was stronger than Cloud Atlas, it was love, cheery youthful love.

 

[2012]

 

The room was shaking as though there was an earthquake, but one knew better than to believe there was an earthquake in central London. Q cursed whoever thought it was the right time to bomb MI6 headquarters because if this was pure coincidence then that person must have been the most blessed terrorist alive. If that was the case then Q would quite happily change that fact. But things are never how he wished it would be. Even though it had been barely a year since the day he got his interview for the job, Q had stopped believing in coincidence.

So when the shaking stopped, almost everyone in the office returned to their respective desks and continued working. MI6 more than thoroughly trained their employees to be professional and to remain calm under any circumstances. Q wiped the spilled coffee with his handkerchief while shouting at certain people to report the damages. He was the youngest Q ever and he knew there were still talks in dark corners about him not being capable for the position. He actually wanted to prove to those rigid old-fashioned secret agents that he deserved whatever he got.

[Not such a clever boy]

Or maybe he did not deserve it after all. There had been times when he was very proud of his skill. There had been times that he was proud of himself. But Raoul Silva had stepped on his pride with a smirk like a bastard he was. And Q could feel his dignity bled away from him every time he remembered those five words. IT only took five words to knock him down on his knee and question about his own ability. So maybe Q really did not deserve anything.

Those words always made him feel like neck-deep into a pit of guilt. Black coffee replaced milk one. HE found it hard to sleep some days with caffeine pumping in his vein. And when he did sleep, he had dreams and dreams turned into nightmares. Q was not forgiving. He could not forgive himself. He reasoned that it was occupational hazard, that it was an unfortunate even, that it was not his fault. But when he woke up in the morning in his pyjamas before his first cup of Earl Grey, he knew that it was his fault. Keeping a straight face at work was easy enough. He was a stubborn arrogant but responsible genius, so he had no problem acting like one, even though inside his world had fallen.

He did not worth it. He had known all along.

 

[1936][2012]

 

He decided to stop living. It was a big decision. He would leave heaps of unfinished business behind.

And he picked up the gun without thinking about his image, climbed into the bathtub thinking ‘so they wouldn’t have to scrape my brain out’, tasted the bitter cold metal and his own salty sweat, hesitated for few seconds, then pulled the damn trigger and ended his life.

His lover heard the deadly noise, dashed up the stairs, barged into the room, held his warm but lifeless body and cried. Because he had lost the love he was looking for. He would never meet that love that used to bright up his days any more.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I watched Cloud Atlas today and I like it a lot. 
> 
> 2\. The title is not completely irrelevant. 
> 
> Also English is not my first language (this seems to become my mantra) so please forgive any grammar/spelling mistakes (I will fix them if you tell me)


End file.
